


i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

by hihoplastic



Series: STV Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd have to gather more information, run more tests and develop a blind study to be certain, but based on experience and the empirical data before her, she's fairly confident in her assessment that this man has the most perfect hands of anyone in the quadrant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maple_Fay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/gifts).



> \- For @maple_fay, based on the tumblr prompt, _'you thought i was someone else and started making out with me at a club and you’re really hot so i just went with it and now we’re heading back to your place and idk how to break it to you’ AU_  
>  \- Title from Pablo Neruda's _Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair_ , Poem #14

She'd have to gather more information, run more tests and develop a blind study to be certain, but based on experience and the empirical data before her, she's fairly confident in her assessment that this man has the most perfect hands of anyone in the quadrant. They're warm and large and he seems to know exactly where to brush his thumb or add pressure to make her shiver, when to tangle his fingers in her hair and when to let them drift low and curve around her ass, bringing her closer. 

She doesn't know his name or even quite what he looks like - the club is dark and loud and she'd hated it initially, when she was still sober and Phoebe had just started plying her with beautiful, horrific tasting drinks; but now she sees its worth, understands the cover of darkness as he presses her further into the wall, his mouth hot and demanding and if she weren't drunk out of her mind she thinks she might be embarrassed by the way her leg winds around his, or the hand under her thigh as he lifts her higher, feet barely on the floor. There's a small, calculating part of her mind that never shuts up, the scientific side of her that thinks of pheromones and chemical reactions and blood alcohol levels, but he's doing a damned good job of shoving it aside for her. 

She doesn't know how they made it from the dance floor to the hallway near the back exit, and she's dimly aware of the fact that they aren't the only two to occupy the space, but every so often his hand cups her breast or his tongue licks at a spot on her clavicle and she realizes her study is too small - this man, whoever he is, has the best hands in the damned universe and she wants them everywhere. 

Sliding her hands under his shirt, she scratches her nails lightly down his back and he shudders, hips rocking into hers and she moans, just a breath by his ear that makes him tighten his fingers around her hair, dragging her mouth back to his. He takes the hint, his other hand tugging her blouse out of her jeans and the floor shifts, the lights spinning around her when he places a hand flat on her stomach, gentle yet erotically possessive. He's all warmth and muscle and dark eyes and thick black hair she can't seem to stop running her fingers through. 

He flicks a thumb over her nipple and she gasps, hips arching into his, and she bites at his shoulder to keep from moaning. 

"We shouldn't do this," he pants, his voice low and just the sound of it makes her want to tear his clothes off right here. The rational part remembers that he's right, they're in public, even as he seems to forget that, mouthing at her neck. 

"My place or yours?" she manages; because there's no other way this will end and she doesn't care anymore, not so long as she can keep touching him. 

"Yours," he says, and she absently wonders if it's so he can sneak out the next morning. For the moment, she doesn't care about that either.

They somehow make it out of the bar, and into a cab, but his hands haven't left her hips and his mouth on her neck makes her flush in the presence of the completely nonplussed taxi driver. 

Her apartment isn't far, and they stumble out into the street less than ten minutes later and before she can attempt to find her keys, he's pushed her up against the door roughly, his hands more biting and his kisses harsher than they were, but there's something about him that makes her unafraid. 

"Last time," he says into her throat. "'m not doing this again."

There's something about his tone the rational part of her notices; the aroused, drunk side doesn't. 

"What?"

He groans. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Why not?" she murmurs, hands sliding down his back, over his ass and thighs and back up, around to his chest, up under his shirt. 

He's still kissing her when he says, "We don't even like each other."

"We don't even know each other."

He shakes his head, nipping at her jaw in a way that makes her flinch. "I know you, Seska."

She's got the door open and closed behind them and they're halfway to the bedroom before she registers what he's said - he thinks she's someone else, someone he doesn't like, someone he shouldn't be touching for whatever reason, and through the haze, her stomach knots. 

"Stop."

It's barely audible, and her hands still haven't caught up with her words. She manages to pull away, turn her head from his mouth and rest her hands flat on his chest over his shirt. 

"Stop," she says again, a bit louder, and though it doesn't even sound convincing to her own ears, he does. His hands fall to her hips and stay and he pulls back, his eyes glassy and unfocused. 

"What's wrong?"

She shouldn't find the slur in his voice adorable, but she does. 

"I'm not Seska."

He blinks at her, then narrows his eyes. "Don't—"

"I'm not." Her hand fumbles on the wall of the light switch; the brightness makes them both wince, squeezing their eyes shut. Her head spins, but she forces herself to look at him, and immediately wishes she hadn't. 

He's gorgeous, far better looking than she'd imagined in the club, with a slightly cooked nose and disproportionately shaped ears that make her want to nip at them both. There's a tattoo over one eye that's obviously cultural, and his eyes are soft and brown. 

She doesn't realize he's studying her just as intently until she hears him inhale sharply, his hands dropping from her hips. She immediately feels cold. 

"You're not Seska."

She swallows, still panting slightly. "No."

"Who—"

"Isn't it a bit late for that?"

He nods, but still looks pained.

"Kathryn," she says, and he relaxes just slightly. 

"Chakotay." He blinks several times and looks around the room. "This is your—"

"Yes."

"And we were—"

He gestures between them, and she glares. 

"Obviously."

He stumbles slightly, cursing under his breath. "I thought—" he starts. "Are you okay?"

Kathryn frowns. "I'm fine." She pauses. "Drunk."

He nods. "Me too. But I meant...I mean, you were—we were both—"

She blames the alcohol for how long it takes to register the concern in his gaze, and she shakes her head, lurching for his arm. 

"I was a perfectly willing participant."

"It's just, you're drunk—"

"So are you. You thought I was—"

"I'm sorry."

She tilts her head. "Are _you_ okay?"

He nods curtly. "Yeah."

He continues to stare at her, in a way she'd find unnerving if her blood weren't pounding in her ears and her skin still on fire. She curls her fingers into fists at her sides to keep from touching him. 

"Who's Seska?"

"My ex."

She blinks, the alcohol inhibiting her manners. "Why'd you want to sleep with her?"

"I don't."

Kathryn snorts, and pushes her hair back from her face. "If that's you unengaged—"

"No, I wasn't—" He reaches for her, then stops himself, and she's relieved she's not the only one still hyper aware. "I don't know why I thought - you look nothing alike." His jaw clenches and he looks almost apologetic for the comparison. "I'm sure you're nothing—" She wonders if he usually speaks in half sentences, or if it's the alcohol. "I should go."

Her body protests, which doesn't surprise her, but there's something else, another part of her that doesn't want him to leave that has nothing to do with desire or sex. He looks almost lost, ashamed, standing in her living room in the harsh light, his clothes ruffled and hair missed and lips swollen. 

"Do you want some coffee?"

"What?"

"Coffee." At his frown, she clarifies: "Actual coffee. The beverage."

It sounds stupid even to her ears, but he smiles tentatively. 

"Okay?"

She nods, but it takes a moment for her feet to catch up with her brain and propel her toward the kitchen. Her head feels heavy and her mouth dry but coffee is something she can do, second nature, half asleep with her eyes closed. 

When she returns he's still standing in the same place, staring absently at her bookshelf. She sets the mugs down and motions for him to join her, a little bemused when he sits on the far end of the sofa. 

"Thank you," he says, taking a long drink. His nose wrinkles and he swallows with a grimace, but doesn't complain.

"Sorry. I should have asked if you wanted sugar."

"It's fine."

He makes the same face after another drink, and she chuckles. 

"What?"

She bites her lip. "You're funny."

 _Smooth_ , she thinks, but he flushes like she's paid him a compliment. 

"We're drunk."

She nods, and takes a long drink. "Have you ever noticed drunk people like to point that out with intriguing frequency?"

He blinks at her over his mug. "What?"

"I'm just saying."

He stares at her for a moment, then smiles. "I have no idea what you're saying."

"Me neither," she says. "I'm drunk."

He laughs. "Me too."

She stares at the way his hands cradle the mug and licks her lips. She wants to say screw the coffee and screw Seska and then actually screw him but it's strange now, both of them hunched over their drinks attempting conversation through the cloud. She keeps having to blink to clear her vision, but she can perfectly remember his lips on her pulse. 

Absently, her hand goes to her neck, and his eyes track the movement. 

"Oh."

"What?"

"You have—"

She cranes her neck, but of course there's no way she can see what he's pointing at. 

"Is it bad?"

"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't look particularly apologetic.

"You know, someone who can't properly identify his ex-girlfriend probably shouldn't look so smug about a hickey."

"It looks good on you."

"You're just saying that because you put it there."

He grins. "Yes."

She huffs, but notices he's moved closer, shifted toward the middle of the sofa, and she's leaned forward in the armchair. 

"All materials are at least marginally influenced by magnetic fields," she says, though she's not sure why. "Most are too weak to be detected outside a lab - their magnetism, that is. Paramagnetism, diamagnetism, antiferromagnetism, they don't form permanent magnets." She pauses. "Iron is ferromagnetic."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a little weird?"

Kathryn flinches. She doesn't mean to. She's not actually offended, and she's been called worse, but she wishes she could keep her drunk, rambling thoughts in her head for once. Especially with him. 

"Hey." 

She startled when his hand settles over her wrist, his thumb brushing her skin in a way that shouldn't affect her as much as it does. 

"I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine."

"You're upset."

"I'm drunk."

"I like your weird," he says, and her eyes jump to his. He's smiling, blushing slightly, and entirely sincere.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay."

"Please don't do that," he murmurs, but his hand doesn't leave her arm.

"What?"

"I'm having a hard enough time—" She licks her lips absently, her gaze dropping to his lap without her permission, and he snorts. "Poor choice of words."

"Too on the nose?"

"You have a cute nose."

She almost giggles, delighting in the way his ears turn red. She reaches out, fingers brushing over the shell of his ear and he shudders. 

"I only stopped you because you thought I was someone else. It wouldn't have been consensual."

"I know. Thank you."

She draws her hands back into her lap. "You shouldn't sleep with people you don't like."

"What about people I don't know?"

When she looks up, he's staring at her mouth. 

"Not usually recommended," she says, but she shifts closer, their knees touching and her hand settles on his thigh. He lifts his hand to run his fingers through her hair. "But not always..." His lips find her throat and she tilts her head back. "Empirically speaking..."

"Kathryn..."

Her name is so soft, so strangely tender that she feels her eyes sting. Cupping his face in her hands, she brings his mouth to hers and everything seems so much better with his hand around the back of her neck and his nose bumping hers. The angle is awkward and it's only a minute or two before he coaxes her forward, off her chair and into his lap and then he's leaning back against her sofa, her knees on either side of his hips and it's worse now that the alcohol is fading. She feels everything more acutely than before, his eyelids against her jaw and his callouses and the hard length of him under her. 

It's different, in the bright overhead lights of her living room, the domestic setting, and her stomach flutters nervously. It's mostly buried, by how much she wants his hands everywhere and her hands everywhere and his mouth everywhere all at once, right now. 

"Is this—" 

She doesn't know what she's asking.

He pushes her hair back from her face and whispers against her cheek. "I want you."

"Not Seska?"

He shakes his head. "You, Kathryn."

She doesn't know how someone who's known her name less than an hour can say it so intimately, but he does. 

It's about sex, she knows it's about sex, but a small part of her wishes he wouldn't be gone in the morning. 

Still, it's not going to stop her from enjoying the now, so she curls her fingers under his shirt and drags it up over his head. 

She throws it somewhere behind the couch and returns her hands to his chest. He's broad shouldered and muscled and so, so warm, skin salty under her tongue. His hands cover most of her back and she likes the way he makes her feel small. 

She wants to feel all of him everywhere, with an urgency that surprises her. Sitting back, she tugs her blouse over her head, and then her camisole, and presses back into his warmth, her lips by his ear and hands in his hair. 

His chest vibrates as he groans, hands wandering from her back to her stomach to her breasts, like he's trying to map her. He sits up, bringing them closer together and his mouth finds hers and she wonders if it's possible to be devoured and not care in the slightest. 

His fingers play with the clasp on her bra, and it takes her a moment to realize he's asking permission. She nods, kissing a trail over her shoulder and only stops to let him drop the garment to the floor. She moves back in, but his hands catch her rib cage, holding her still. 

She frowns, confused until she sees his eyes travel over her exposed skin. She isn't self-conscious, not really, but he's studying her like he's committing her to memory, and it's only the remains of the alcohol in her system that keep her from covering herself. 

He can see everything in this light - the faded stretch marks on her abdomen, the scar on her shoulder, the small bumps around her nipples and yet he's looking at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

She can't imagine that she is - a man who looks like he does, with the obvious technique he has, she doubts she's the first woman he's looked at this way, but she can't bring herself to care. Right now, in this moment, he's hers, so she kisses him and drags her nails down his chest and mutters "bedroom" into the side of his mouth.

His arms tighten around her back and she doesn't understand why until he's standing, hands relocating under her thighs and she instinctively latches her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. 

"Which way?"

She removes her mouth from his long enough to say, "Down the hall. Third door. God, you're strong."

He laughs, and she loves the sound. 

"I box."

"Hmm?"

"Boxing," he says, preoccupied with not dropping her and kissing her at the same time. 

"Professionally?"

"For fun."

She snorts. "And you think I'm weird."

He bites at her jaw in retaliation. "It's a good workout."

"It's violence couched in a socially acceptable framework," she mutters, aware that she probably shouldn't be heckling him when he's doing such wonderful things with his teeth. 

"You weren't complaining before," he says, finally locating her bedroom. 

"I'm not complaining." She runs her hands over his biceps to prove it. "Tell however many guys you've beat up I'm very grateful."

He laughs again, lowering her to the bed and following, his body stretched over hers, hips pressed into her stomach. 

"I'll be sure to pass along your regards."

"Good," she says, too distracted by the spot she's found on his neck that makes his hips roll. 

Pulling away, he shuffles down her body to mouth at her stomach. 

"So what do you do?" he mumbles, focusing on a spot below her ribs that makes her toes curl. 

"What?"

"For fun."

He nips at the underside of her breast and she gasps. "I don't—what?"

She can feel his smug grin. "You don't have fun?"

"I work—oh, God." She loses her train of thought as his hand covers her breast, squeezing lightly. 

"Work where?"

Her brain short fires when his mouth replaces his hand. 

"What?"

"Work where?"

"Science," she manages, not because she's unwilling to tell him, but because it's all her brain can come up with. 

He pauses to look up at her, eyes bright and pupils blown in the dim light from outside her window. 

"That sounds very illustrious."

She smacks his shoulder. "Shut up."

He grins, ducking his head, his hands sliding up her arms, fingers curling around hers. The gesture is so tender it makes her breathing stall. 

"What kind of science?"

It takes her a moment to register the question. "What are you—"

"Getting to know you," he says, his voice muffled against her chest, and she rolls her eyes. Shifting her weight, she rolls them to the side until he's on his back, her knees near his ribcage as she returns the favor, every so often rolling her hips against his in a different pattern to see what he likes. 

"Astrophysics," she says. "Electromagnetism, relativity, thermodynamics, quantum mechanics. Am I boring you yet?"

His hands roam over her back and along her sides. "Keep going."

She slips her hand under the waistband of his pants. "I work with other astrophysicists to construct theoretical models and determine their observational consequences." She motions for him to lift his hips, dragging his trousers and boxers down his legs. She dispenses with his shoes, bemused by the bright patterns on his socks. "We study stellar dynamics, string theory, cosmology, magnetohydrodynamics."

Chakotay gasps as her fingers curl around his length. 

"It's not quite beating the crap out of someone, but it has its moments. You should see us in board meetings."

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand gripping her hip and the other tangled in the sheets. 

His eyes close, his lips parted as he struggles to breathe and he's beautiful, she notes, spread out beneath her. She keeps up her strokes, slow and even, with varying pressure as she leans down and kisses him. His eyes don't open, but he returns it instantly, wrapping his arm around her back and pulling her closer. 

It's a trap, she realizes, a second too late, when he flips them back over, mouth latching onto her breast as his hands fumble between them for the clasp on her jeans. Her fingers tug at his hair in retribution, but he merely smirks, pulling her pants and underwear down her legs. He removes her socks and shoes as she had for him, and places a fleeting kiss to the arch of her foot before crawling back up her body. Her leg winds around his waist and she rocks into him, fingers scrabbling at his back and his name a breathy sigh in her throat. 

Rolling over on her side, she fumbles around in the nightstand drawer, pausing distractedly when his lips find the nape of her neck and begin a path down her spine. She has to force herself not to stay there, content with his hands trailing up and down her sides. Fingers closing over the foil packet, she turns back, tossing it at his chest. Chakotay huffs out a laugh into her neck, but takes the packet from where it's dropped on her stomach, tears it open with his teeth and rolls the condom on while she continues to nip at his collarbone.

He captures her mouth again as his hand nudges open her thighs. She expects him to press into her, but instead he pauses, thumb brushing the inside of her leg but he makes no further moves. 

"Chakotay?"

"You tensed up," he says softly, no hint of recrimination in his voice, just concern and a faint undertone of arousal he can't quite mask. 

"What?"

She hadn't really noticed, but apparently he had, had been paying close enough attention and she isn't sure if that's erotic or unnerving. Either way he smiles, lopsided, and kisses her nose. 

"Do you always take this good care of strangers?" She asks before she can stop herself, and Chakotay blushes. 

"I don't usually do this with strangers," he admits. 

For some reason, she believes him. "Me neither."

He grins. "Something about magnets, then?"

She kisses him to stop herself from saying something stupid, her hand guiding his between her legs and she shudders at the first press of his thumb over her clit, mouth tearing from his as she buries her face in his shoulder, hands gripping his arms. 

His weight over half her body presses her into the mattress, the other half of her cold and exposed and the difference makes her head spin. His hand works between her legs until she's slick and panting and she's afraid to look up, to see his eyes watching her face or tracking the twitching of her hips, the pulse in her throat. 

He curls a finger inside her and pauses. Asks if she's okay. She nods, tilts her hips into his hand in encouragement and fumbles between them, knuckles brushing the underside of his cock and he grunts, pitches forward, his hand between them pressing roughly against her clit and she moans, too loudly for her own comfort but he gets the hint. Another finger slides inside her and his thumb keeps a steady pressure and her eyes drift shut. She tries to keep pace, fingers wrapped loosely around his cock but everything is condensing, her skin on fire, and when she lifts her leg further over his hip, it all fades. 

It isn't the most intense orgasm she's ever had, not by far, but there's something about the weight of him, his smell, the careful way he removes his hand and kisses her neck until she stops shuddering that makes it close to perfect. 

When she opens her eyes he's smiling, hand tracing a sticky trail down her side to soothe her, and she feels the desire build again. 

Pushing him into his back, she straddles his waist again and kisses him, one hand on his cheek and the other guiding him inside her and she's fairly certain most one night stands don't feel like this. The drunken urgency is gone, replaced by want - the lust is still there but it's heightened, she thinks, by the strange tenderness she's stumbled into. 

She pauses to give them a moment - his eyes are squeezed shut, and she can tell by his breathing she's trying to control the instinctive roll of his hips. But when she moves he moves with her, hands on her breasts when she sits up straight, sliding around her back when she leans down to kiss him. It starts slow but it doesn't last long, hours of foreplay coalesced into breathy moans and soft sighs and mouth against hers, tongue darting out to lick her lip. 

It takes a while to get the angle right, and it isn't until he sits up, rocking his hips into hers in short, sharp bursts that she feels overwhelmed. He must too, because when she breathes his name against his ear he comes, his fingers fumbling between them to circle her clit and she follows, collapsing against his chest. She's dimly aware that she's trembling, or maybe he is, and he holds her to him for a long moment after. 

She pulls away when it comes uncomfortable. Disappears into the bathroom and cleans up quickly. He goes in after her, and she isn't sure what to do so she picks up their clothes. Throws hers in the laundry and folds his over a chair. 

"What exactly is magnetohydrodynamics?"

His voice makes her jump, and when she turns she finds him leaning against the door jamb, watching her. 

Shadowed in the light from the master bath, she can't quite make out his features, just his silhouette, but she's achingly aware of how naked he is. How naked she still is. 

How much, irrationally, she still wants him. 

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugs. "I'm interested."

"Why?"

He tugs at his earlobe. "Because you're interested."

Swallowing, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Magnetic properties of electrically conducting fluids. Plasma, salt water, liquid metals."

"How does that relate to astrophysics?"

She shakes her head. "Look, you don't have to—"

"I know," he says, pushing off the wall. She watches him warily until he stops in front of her, hands settling on her hips. He licks his lips, and she wants to kiss him again. "I'll leave if you want me to."

"Isn't that typically how these things work?" 

"I'm not sure anything about this has been typical."

She hesitates. "How do I know you won't steal my stereo?"

He laughs softly. "I already have a stereo."

"My jewelry, then."

He shrugs. "I've never looked good in earrings."

"I'm being serious."

"I'm not going to steal your things, Kathryn. I'm not a thief."

"You punch people for fun."

He groans, but she can tell he's amused. "You're not gonna let that go, are you?"

"I don't know you," she says, even though most of her doesn't care.

"I'm Chakotay," he says. "I have a horrible ex, who, in retrospect, is nothing like you at all. I teach anthropology at SF State. I have a cat."

"A cat?"

"Bruno. He's blind in both eyes and runs into things constantly."

"Bruno?"

He shrugs. "My sister named him."

"You have a sister?"

"Sekaya. She lives on a reservation a few hours from here."

She nods, slowly creating a picture in her mind. "What else?"

He huffs, lips quirking up in a smile. "Well, I trust people a bit easier than you do, I think," he teases. "I live in a studio apartment in the Mission, I paint, though I'm not very good at it. I like to build things. Chairs, boats, little figurines."

"Figurines?"

"Animals, mostly."

She hesitates, then nods slowly. "Okay. You can stay."

He frowns. "Because of the animals?"

"Because you humored me."

His smile is almost as warm as his hands, his mouth as he kisses her. Her hands settle on his chest and she opens her mouth under his, but it's slow and soft and she feels suddenly exhausted. Tugging his hand, she pulls him back to the bed, turning down the sheets and crawling under them. She curls her body into his, half-strewn over his chest, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers trace patterns along her spine and arm. 

"Solar flares," she mumbles, half aware that she probably shouldn't be talking. 

"What?"

"Breakdown of ideal MDH causes solar flares." Craning her neck, she looks up at him, suddenly intent on explaining. "I don't have hobbies."

"That's okay."

"I don't paint or build things or have a cat."

He brushes her hair back from her cheek. "I don't care."

"If you're gone tomorrow I won't hold it against you."

He smiles, a bit melancholy, and presses a kiss to her hair. "Go to sleep."

She settles back down against his chest, his heartbeat steady, skin warm against hers. 

\--

When she wakes up, he's gone.

His trousers are gone from the chair as well, her head is pounding, and her limbs protest as she sits up. The sheets are ruffled and still smell like him, and she hates the overly romantic part of her that hoped he wasn't just being kind. 

Running a hand through her hair, she forces herself to swing her legs over the side of the bed. She needs coffee and a heavy dose of aspirin before she can even function, let alone try to unravel what happened last night. 

Shrugging into her robe, she pads into the living room and nearly trips over his shirt. She frowns, confused as to why he'd leave without it. She's even more confused as to why, when she presses her nose to the fabric, it smells like pancakes. 

It takes her a good minute to realize it's not his shirt, but rather her whole apartment, and when she peers into the kitchen she finds him rifling through her fridge, his hair stuck out at all angles, feet bare. 

"Make yourself at home," she manages, finally recovered from the shock.

Chakotay starts, banging his head against the freezer door, and she has to stifle a laugh. 

He recovers quickly. "Do you subsist only on take out?"

"And coffee," she says, crossing to pour herself a cup from the pot he's already brewed. 

"Not even 24 hours and you're already testing my culinary adaptability." At her frown, he gestures to the pancakes. "No eggs. Or milk."

"Do they even still qualify?" she teases, studying him over the rim of her mug. 

Cutting a piece with a fork, he holds it out to her. The gesture is domestic enough to make her stomach flutter, but she humors him anyway. 

Licking her lips, she tries not to look too impressed. "Tastes like pancake."

He smiles, seemingly pleased that she's pleased. 

"You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

"Why?"

Her brain shouts at her to shut up and enjoy it, but her heart, so easily bruised, wants clarity. 

"I want to get to know you better," he says, staring intently at the frying pan as he adds more batter. "I like you."

 _I like you too_ , she thinks, but she doesn't say it and she doesn't know why. Instead, she sets her mug on the counter and cups his cheek in her hand, turning his face toward hers to kiss him softly. 

"Has anyone ever told you you're a little weird?"

He laughs, turning back to breakfast with a wide smile on his face. 

"I guess we make a good pair, then."

She nods, and thinks of magnets, of opposites attracting, and hopes against hope that he's right.


End file.
